


The following toys are not appropriate for children

by ShadowDash6603



Series: Miscellaneous Minecraft One-Shots [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Burns, Check out og fic, First Work!!!, Gen, How does one italicize, Manipulative Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Mind Control, No Beta we die like big man tommy, No clue what im doing but here we go, Ranboo Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Wow tagging sucks, for tags and context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29842842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowDash6603/pseuds/ShadowDash6603
Summary: One shot inspired by HiGuy258's "Broken Toys"!Ranboo knows what losing himself feels like.But nothing like this.
Relationships: Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Ranboo & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Miscellaneous Minecraft One-Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193960
Comments: 9
Kudos: 77
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	The following toys are not appropriate for children

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HiGuy258](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiGuy258/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Broken Toys](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848357) by [HiGuy258](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiGuy258/pseuds/HiGuy258). 



> PLEASE NOTE!!
> 
> Written before Chapter 14 so things may be inaccurate, but I still wanted to post this for experience and because the work and author really inspired me. Please be mindful of the tags and constructive criticism is welcome!

Ranboo knows what losing yourself is like.

It’s his day to day. Wake up. Wonder where you are, how did you get here, what day is it? See the book on the side table. Read. Remember. It was infinitely worse when he first showed up on this server. He had nothing then, not in pockets nor in his head. Just “Ranboo.” But he had no idea who that was, who he was, what he was. 

It was Tubbo and Tommy who helped him figure most things out. 

Tubbo told him he was part enderman and showed him how to look at people’s eyebrows and make a habit of wearing armor out in case of rain. Tubbo gave him his first job and first memory journal, seeing a major flaw as an opportunity. Tubbo showed him what a home was and gave him a handkerchief before his tears could burn him.

Tommy made him laugh, hearty and full and slightly glitchy, while he whined childishly about an age Ranboo had no real number for. Tommy pulled him into his first prank, first adventure, as slightly illegal as it was. Tommy protected him, defended him, and asked for nothing in return. Tommy showed him what loyalty was, true loyalty, to friends, not land. He made his first promise to Tommy-- to be there, to do something, to fix this whole exile mess.

He wasn’t sure if he could fix Tommy now.

Not when he was going to be broken, too.

As he walked to the modified table, Tommy’s wooden grip on his arm, he tried not to shake too much. His long legs felt like slime barely keeping him upright and Philza’s pleas and Tubbo’s cries clattered like bottles in his head. He could feel himself slipping again; there was a word for it, blacking out the world until any and all issues evaporated, but he had forgotten it was. 

Next thing he knew there were bands around his extremities and chest and forehead and two black dots staring straight to his heterochromatic eyes.

Instinctually, he yelped and writhed, stopping abruptly when a hand, cold as polished granite, wrapped itself around his throat and squeezed. He froze as he was met with eyes that could pass for grey marbles. 

Tommy’s eyes.

No, no. Those weren’t Tommy’s eyes, they couldn’t be, please. He remembered, he remembered that they were blue. Not a royal blue like Ghostbur’s handouts, but sky blue. As vibrant and wild as the sparks that had lit George’s house on fire. When the half enderman whispered his name under his breath, the broken boy cringed and pulled away.

Had he really allowed this to happen? His promise, his first promise-- how could he have forgotten to visit, gotten so busy and consumed with patriotism and politics. He felt water burn down the side of his face as he stared at what was left his friend, avoiding the dead orbs and unintentionally focusing on the demented smile on the younger’s face. An animalistic whine escaped his lips as the suffocating grip disappeared.

“Woah, that’s a new one,” that green bastard cooed from a small table a few feet away, moving his hands up and down-- sewing, Ranboo realized.

“I’ve never heard an enderman make that sound before. Think I can do it?” The chartreuse madman began making crude and mocking vocalizations of the language of his people, of him in pain.

How could he not realize that Dream would hurt Tommy, like the half enderman had been hurt on his first day. He could recall that incident with clarity: running for his life with a flaming arrow in his shoulder, confused and scared, collapsing on the steps of the church, only to look up and see that damn smile.

The same smile that was adjusting two sticks and a sock puppet above his chest.

“Sorry about the delay,” Dream announced cheerily, “For the life of me I couldn’t remember how your hair looked, like whether it matched your skin colors or was inverted. Least I remembered how your skin looked, gotta give me credit for that!”

He picked up the sock puppet and showed it off to the boy of it’s likeness.

“You like the little tie? I think it gives it a nice pop of color, don’t you?”

Ranboo jerks his head to the side, choosing to look at the pitch black water around Logchester in lieu of closing his eyes, since he couldn’t physically do the latter. A shiver made it’s way down his spine when he realized the puppet had had no eyes at all. An unsatisfied huff comes from above him. 

“Just don’t move; I’m sure you wouldn’t like to end up like my first few tries.”

“Y-you won’t-- you won’t get away with t-this.” Curse his stutter botching up maybe the last words spoken of his own volition.

“But Ranboo, I already have!” Dream chuckles to himself before sighing, stilling his arms correctly above the hybrid’s rapidly beating chest, “Prime, that was way to cheesy.”

And then he starts chanting.

Yes, Ranboo knows what losing yourself feels like.

But nothing like this.

His mouth opens wide and gaping as it feels something leave him, something flutters through his maw and nose and eyes until fizzles away like a dead firework. He doesn’t know what it was, if he did he can’t get his damaged brain to remember-- but it was important. It was important! So, so, important. More important than his memories, than one of his lives. There’s just this cavity in his chest where the something important should be, but it’s not, and he can’t-- he can’t breathe--!

“Hello and welcome, my new toy.”

And then everything is okay.

No. 

No, no, no, no-- he can’t be okay, Dream just exorcised his soul or something-- he can’t feel okay. 

But he does, he feels better even-- no, no you can’t feel better. Dream did something, he took the important something-- But I do, I don’t know how but he fixed us--!

“Ranboo? Look at me.”

The command is unnecessary as he feels his neck muscles contract and expand before the lime puppeteer even finishes his sentence.

He-- oh Prime-- he feels his ligaments bend and move, he can see himself ease himself onto his feet after Tommy undoes the straps binding him. But it’s not him, it’s not his body anymore, at least not while Dream has those damn sticks. He opens his mouth to sob, but nothing, nothing, comes out. Not a whimper, not a whine, not a sound. He is forced to experience this internal crisis in only his head, while his prison of a body is led back down to the actual cell.

Ranboo wonders, horrified, if one day he will forget the something.

He meets Tubbo’s stare and feels terrible when his friend just looks more afraid. No words come out of reassurance or in response to Philza’s questions. When the older man is forced to leave, all Ranboo can do is collapse to the stone floor. When Tubbo starts sobbing, all he can do is weakly stretch his hand out towards his friend, before completely succumbing to the state he forgot the name of. 

Ranboo is lucid just enough to witness the only, but still the most painful, hostage situation he has ever seen. The no name state beacons to him again and he answers worryingly easily.

XXXXXXX

“You’ve got a bunch of cool features, don’t ya?”

Ranboo isn’t sure why Dream has taken such an interest in him. Although nowadays he’s not sure of a lot of things. According to the man currently poking and prodding at him, Ranboo can’t have a memory book anymore-- he doesn’t remember why, only barely recalling a haze of convoluted and most likely twisted philosophy. 

“You’re the object now, Ranboo. You aren’t allowed to own anything-- including that book.”

The only clear memory of that day is of Tubbo begging him to repeat his name to himself whenever he can. 

He chants it in his head-- Ranboo, Ranboo, Ranboo-- as Dream forces his jaw down even more. His enderman genes allow him to open his mouth fairly wide, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt or strain after a long period of time. All the hybrid can do is sit listlessly as the green jerk plays dentist.

Fuzzy memories drift into his mind, more times where Dream started investigating his enderman abilities. Forcing his claws to extend and retract unil he bled, pushing him in blistering heat to dig up grass block after grass block, endless water buckets that resulted in only one teleportation of exactly five blocks to the left. Shrieking until his voice gave out. Staring at the other’s mask’s eye holes until he passed out. 

He can’t ask why and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to find out, anyways.

“Toy may be a perfect puppet--,” 

Dream starts monologuing like the villain he is and Ranboo wishes the other would back up, let him close his mouth, let him talk for once, let him vocalize, please. So he can tell him to his face his name is Tommy.

“And Tubbo may be a wonderful ventriloquist’s dummy--,”

As the madman crosses the room to grab something from a chest, Ranboo wishes he could see his best friend or hear his real laugh again.

“And Phil may be a collector’s item--,” 

Dream sits back down next to the hybrid, and places a bit of fabric on his chest. He wishes he could talk to Philza, the man always helps him remember what he’s forgotten.

“But you? You’re an action figure,” the monster sneers over him, placing an iron file on his dullest tooth.

The first stroke sends a spark across his body and into the air. Dots force the dilated jade and ruby to meet. Ranboo-- Ranboo, Ranboo(?), Ran-- feels the fang chip in such a way the end becomes needle-like. Deadly like how his claws have become after days of training, deadly like how his teleportation could get the jump on someone, deadly like how his newly spiked armor poking out of the chest.

“You’re made to be accessorized and played with.”


End file.
